


Five Hours at Freddy's

by OhNoNotAnotherFakeGeekGirl



Category: Evil Dead (Movies), Evil Dead - All Media Types, Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: (I should have added that sorry), A lot more Horror than Comedy (sorry AoD fans), Animatronics, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, Gen, Horror, Horror-Comedy, Implied Violence Against Children, PTSD, Psychological Horror, Wild speculation IN GENERAL, Wild speculation as to Ash's whereabouts between 1987 and 1992, eldritch horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2893154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoNotAnotherFakeGeekGirl/pseuds/OhNoNotAnotherFakeGeekGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When everyone's favourite reluctant one-handed demon-slayer starts his first shift at his new job, things don't go exactly to plan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Closing Time

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Missy, DrByron, my friends Jessie and Clara, and tumblr user kronlc for encouraging me to finally get of my lazy arse and write this sucker. You're all wonderful.

It was half-past eleven when the ‘73 Oldsmobile Delta screeched into the staff parking spot, nearly busting a headlight on the corner of a dumpster. The driver exploded out of the vehicle, muttering a whispered mantra of “Shit, shit, shit…” as his bulky prosthetic hand fumbled with the lock on the car door. Clumsily stuffing the keys into the pocket of his thin, navy blue jacket, he rushed inside, boots sticking to and peeling off of the tacky linoleum of the corridor with each step.

He squinted at his watch by the dim light, giving a relieved sigh when he realised he was right on time to start his shift. His name was Ashley Williams, known to all but his mom as Ash, and this was his first night as the security guard at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. Other than the moonlight filtering in through the wire mesh windows, there was only one light source on in the building’s staff wing; a flickering fluorescent bulb just outside a doorway marked “Security” in fading letters. The darkness washed the normally garishly-coloured posters with a fuzzy grey reminiscent of TV static, making the restaurant’s anthropomorphic mascots leer at him from the walls. The place looked more like a haunted house than a family-friendly restaurant.

‘Hey, anyone still here?’ He bellowed down the hallway. No answer. _Nobody but my old pals Jack and Shit,_ Ash mused. He peered into the blackness, and, for a moment, it felt like something, or someone, was peering back. The presence laughed. A low-pitched, slow, mocking chuckle. _What the hell?_ He inched forward to see if he could make out what this strange thing was. It looked as though it was constructed out of four cocktail weenies skewered to a potato, but what caught Ash’s attention most were the vivid, glistening marks on its top-hatted head. _Are those… Handprints?_ But before Ash could get any closer, a loud ringing sound erupted from the security guard’s office, which he took as his cue to get to his post.

The office was, for lack of a better description, a complete dump. There was a crumb-encrusted desk, underside obscured from view by a curtain of cobwebs, littered with enough greasy napkins and fast food containers to supply a small chain of McGiggity’s for a year. Stacked on top of it were monitors that hadn’t been touched since at least 1987, an answering machine, and an old desktop computer that had only faith and a small rickety desk fan keeping it from starting a lucrative new career as a fire hazard. An age-yellowed fridge sat dejectedly in the back corner of the room, plastered with crude drawings and the remains of a war fought with sticky notes over the whereabouts of their authors’ lunches. Much like the hallway, the walls were plastered with posters of the restaurant’s mascots, slogans like “Celebrate!” and “Let’s eat!” doing poor work of convincing Ash that he had not in fact waltzed backwards a few decades into a childhood nightmare. After discovering the source of the ringing to be a phone buried under a pyramid of balled-up napkins, Ash answered it.

‘Hello?’

‘You’re in grave danger!’ came the reply. Ash baulked for a second, a feeling that was quickly dismissed as he recognised the voice at the other end.

‘Mike Schmidt.’ He addressed his old high school classmate playfully. ‘You do this to all the new night guards at Fred Fuzzbucket’s, or am I just special?’ He eyed up the heavy-looking doors at either side of the room. _Speaking of, what the Hell is with this place,_ He thought, _is it trying to be a kiddie restaurant or Fort Knox?_

‘It’s Freddy Fazbear’s.’ Mike corrected.

‘Gesundheit.’ Ash deflected, choosing instead to pick up the only piece of modern technology he could find in the office- a lone touchscreen tablet covered in grimy fingerprints.

‘Ash, much as I love your pillow talk, I need to tell you something. It’s important.’

‘I’m in grave danger?’ Ash said, using his chin to pin the receiver to his shoulder so he could examine the tablet with both hands.

Mike’s voice suddenly acquired a hesitant, almost fearful tone. ‘Yeah, that. The… oh, geez, how do I say this…’

‘Try using words.’ Ash lazily replied, well aware of Mike’s propensity to kid around. He wiped the greasy screen with the stiff sleeve of his starchy new uniform. It blinked into life, showing security camera footage from the show stage.

‘Hardy ha. Jokes aside, the uh… robots at Freddy’s… they, uh… they move.’ He gulped.

‘Wow, what a miracle of modern technology.’ Ash muttered drily. The bottom right-hand corner of the touchscreen held a map of the building, with the locations of every security camera marked on it in little grey boxes. Currently the camera marked CAM 1A was highlighted. Two graphics in the opposite corner, indicated two things. One showed that there was 99 percent power remaining, and the other claimed to represent usage- of what, Ash wasn’t quite sure. A few experimental prods and a scratch of the head told him nothing.

‘No, I mean the animatronics like to wander around. Freely. During your shift. Don’t let the fluffy furball act fool you either- those things are killing machines!’ ’ Ash rolled his eyes, certain that Mike was just winding him up.

‘Truly amazing. Nice talking to you Mike, but duty calls, so if you could just…’

‘Ash, I’m telling you, I wish I was kidding. I spent a whole week cooped up in that office, so scared I couldn’t even speak-’

‘Wait a minute.’ Ash interrupted, cocking an eyebrow. ‘A whole week? Seven days? What, you get superglued to the chair or something? If it’s so bad, why work here so long?’

‘I didn’t say it was _bad_. Despite the cruddy office and worse pay, it was actually kinda fun. Doesn’t mean it’s any less dangerous. I just… I heard about what happened to you a while back, and I want to make sure you’ll be okay.’ Mike reassured gently.

‘I _am_ okay.’ Ash said bluntly.

‘Really?’ Mike sounded unconvinced. ‘Ash, Linda _died._ You were missing for five years! How long were you in therapy for again?’

‘That’s not the point. I came back. I got better.’ Ash snapped coldly. ‘What are you, my mom?’

‘I’m just looking out for you.’

‘Mike, I’m a grown man.’

‘Ash-‘

‘Listen to me.’ Ash snarled into the receiver. ‘I. Am. Going. To. Be. _Fine._ ’ On the other end of the phone, Mike let out a puff of air.

‘Okay, so you’re mad I brought Linda up. I get that. I’m sorry. But you can’t just ignore me and think that you can just put your feet up tonight. This is some serious A-grade ninth-circle shit going on here! Call me crazy, but I think these robots might be _haunted!_ ’ Mike said in the nervous, rushed manner of a man making an erectile dysfunction appointment with his mother in the room.

Ash rubbed his eyes, exasperated. _Can’t I just go one week- hell, just one night- without something weird happening? Please?_ He prayed to a god who was probably too busy doodling on people’s food to listen to the pleas of the nominal Promised One. Resigned to the fact that his life had contorted itself into some twisted comedy sketch years ago, Ash corrected his old friend. ‘First things first, Mikey, I’ve BEEN to the ninth circle. It looks more like downtown Miami than some sticky-floored pizza place. Second of all, haunted robots?’ He laughed.

‘You think I’m joking.’ Mike groaned, crestfallen.

‘Trust me Mikey, I believe you. Don’t sweat it. I could take care of ten killer ‘bots with one hand tied behind my back.’

‘Okay, just… whatever you do, can you at least promise you’ll do something for me?’

‘Mike-’

‘Please- just this one thing. I’m begging you, Ash.’

As soon as those words escaped Mike’s mouth, travelled in electrical signals down the telephone line, and exited out the other end directly into Ash’s right ear, Ash knew two things. Firstly, any efforts to refuse his old classmate’s oncoming request would be futile, and secondly, that said request wasn’t going to be particularly fun to carry out. Last time Ash had heard those words, it was in connection with an extremely embarrassing incident at the Dearborn town hall involving some brownies, a trampoline, and a very unfortunate Christmas tree. In his head, he was frantically trying to cram it back into the all too overstuffed space in his brain reserved for repressed memories. Meanwhile, in reality, Ash shrugged his shoulders and lolled his head back in defeat.

‘Fine, I’ll bite.’ He answered passively. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to play the recordings.’

‘…What?’

‘The answering machine on the desk. I swear to God, Ash, it’ll save your life.’ Ash’s throat tightened like a noose. It wasn’t often he was rendered speechless, but as he recalled the ill-fated vacation that had changed his life forever, the constant stream of words he would otherwise have been eager to unleash suddenly dried up into nothing. To him, recorded messages meant nothing but Trouble with a capital T, smeared all over the walls with the blood of all the past nameless Shemps who were stupid enough to take this job. He didn’t care about what Mike had just told him- pushing the play button on that little black answering machine went against every gut instinct his body was capable of producing.

‘Ashley? You still on the phone?’

‘Huh? Yeah, yeah…’ Ash quietly muttered his goodbyes and thanks into the brittle plastic receiver, and went back to absent-mindedly flicking through camera footage as the digital clock counted down to midnight, minute by slow-burning minute.


	2. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our intrepid demon slayer enjoys a virtual tour of the establishment, and hits the fridge for a midnight snack.

On top of the sticky, dusty monitor, the clock’s digital face flicked from 11:59 to 12:00, and as it did, some otherworldly influence flooded the building in a cold, viscous wave. The air grew thicker and heavier, as though it were a balloon about to burst, and acquired a singular texture that could only be described as bruised. Of the six beings in the building, four snapped awake, one pretended not to notice, and the last relaxed as the wave rushed through the walls, coating them all in its influence.

After the phone receiver clicked into place on the cradle, all time itself seemed to stop. Ash had forgotten how many times he’d cycled through camera footage since he’d turned the screen on. Virtually nothing had happened, except for the distraction that reading the safety rules in the east hall provided. In a numbered order, as though typed up in a terrible rush, they commanded the reader not to run, yell, scream, or poop on the floor, to stay close to mom, to not touch Freddy or hit, and lastly, to leave before dark. To him, the notice wouldn’t look out of place in a copy of MAD magazine, despite its dank, grimy surroundings. Deciding that reading the words “don’t poop on floor” for the twenty-fifth time didn’t have quite as much comedic clout as it did the first time, Ash decided to monitor the other cameras.

In contrast with the hall’s corner, touching the icon marked Cam 4A gave a poorly-lit view of the east hall that Ash thought would work far better as a piece of pretentious album art. It was a pitch-black tunnel with silver stars and curtain-like cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. Posters of the restaurant’s mascots leered from the walls, barely visible if not for the whites of their eyes, made brighter from the glare of the fluorescent light in the corner of the frame.

The footage that filled the tablet screen after switching to the feed marked Cam 3 was from the supply closet in the west hall. An unremarkable room, it was lit by a single bulb that hung from the ceiling by a chain-like fixture, and housed a broom, a mop and bucket, and many bottles of various cleaning fluids. The only possible remarkable feature about it was its floor, which had a perfectly glassy texture that contrasted with the stained, tiled walls.

The camera made the dining area look cavernous in the dark. Rows upon rows of peeling vinyl chairs flanked rows of tables arranged like tombstones in a military cemetery, faded plastic tablecloths draped over each one like burial shrouds, presumably garish patterns obscured by the stippling static of the camera. Colourful paper party hats were arranged on top of each table in a meticulous line, inviting the next day’s herd of children to wear, rip and drool into them. Ash briefly fantasised about quickly slipping out of his office to rearrange the tables in the hall, just to mess with the anal-retentive cleaning staff, and smirked.

Touching the tab labelled Cam 5 led to what the title called the backstage area, lit by the open Employees Only door. Its shelves were lined with animatronic heads like child-friendly hunting trophies. A large table sat in the middle of the room, a skeletal animatronic perched on the end. It stared downwards with large, spherical eyes and a wide-open set of trap-like jaws, creating an expression that looked as though it had just spotted a hundred dollar bill on the ground. Deciding there was nothing noteworthy there, Ash tapped the icon for Cam 6, but not before the eyes of each animatronic in the room flicked towards the camera, for just long enough to him to get a glimpse, but for not quite long enough to register as problematic. Cam 6, which was labelled “Kitchen,” turned out to be broken, with only a black screen to greet Ash’s eyes. Deciding that he could just make a quick dash down the hall to check on the room in person, with the possible added opportunity of sneaking an on-the-clock snack, Ash flicked to the next feed.

The western hall was as still as if it had just been a photograph. Silver cut-out stars hung from the ceiling, children’s drawings of cakes, stick figure families, and glaring, lumpy, hollow-eyed monsters lined the walls, each one titled “My Fun Day!” Ash thought that this title that bore as much sincerity as the time that his late friend Scotty had borrowed his car, and claimed that the collection of empty beer bottles and crumpled speeding tickets found in the console upon its return were for a friend’s art project. He speculated about just how many parents booked their children in for therapy after a day spent there, and checked the west hall’s second camera, which was pointed at the corner. There didn’t seem to be much of a difference between this corner and the one in the east hall, as both walls plastered with receipts, and floors that, despite the crumpled napkins and other fast food paraphernalia littering it, were polished to a mirror-like gleam. There were, however, two things that stood out. One was the patch of vine-like tubes that sprouted from some unseen vent in the ceiling, and the other was a poster of the restaurant’s nominal mascot, Freddy Fazbear. Titled “Let’s Party,” the top-hatted, bow-tied bear was holding out a microphone and looking out from its mounting on the wall with what was intended to be a charismatic and inviting smile. But as Ash inspected the poster more closely, the poster seemed to be looking at him, grimacing, or as close as an animatronic bear could come to doing so. A viscous black substance started to ooze from the paper, from Freddy’s eyes, rolling slowly down the wall to pool on the floor.

Ash decided that he needed a breather, and got up to explore the fridge at the back of the room.

Meanwhile, behind a faded, moth-eaten curtain, something stirred, and peered out at the camera with shining false eyes. Had it been built to facilitate smiling, it would have done so cruelly, as it realised that it wasn’t being monitored. _All rule-breakers be forced to walk the plank…_

Ash anticipated that “the fridge that time forgot” wouldn’t have an all-the-way-working door, but he at least hoped it’d be a smidge easier to open than a ten-tonne portcullis. He yanked on the handle until the plastic cracked under his grip, tried to prise the door open with his fingers but to no avail, and no amount of swearing or cries of “C’mon baby, open up!” would get the door to budge. Infuriated, Ash swung his right fist into the side of the fridge, and with a loud smacking sound, the door finally popped open, displaying a museum of rotten leftovers that were thankfully sealed away behind layers of foil, saran wrap and plastic containers. Grabbing an unopened can of soda from inside the door, Ash pulled away, only to see a small shape flash across his peripheral vision. He ducked his head in to take a closer look, only for the unseen creature to dive behind a jar of blue and green speckled sludge labelled “mayonnaise” and out of sight. _Probably just a rat,_ Ash reasoned, right before the words “IT’S ME!” suddenly filled his mind and ears, making him jump and hit his head against the doorframe with a heavy thunk.

On the show stage, under lights that had just gone cold, three fat, colourful bodies turned their heads to face a camera, quickly and silently, as though the stiff, ageing mechanisms underneath were absent altogether. _You’re not supposed to be here without your mommy… That’s against the rules…_

Ash blinked away the stars that clouded his vision, rolling the cold can, dented by a reflexive fist-tightening, back and forth against the afflicted spot on the back of his head. Whilst he waited for the ringing in his ears to die down, he tried to make sense of the brief flash.   
_Probably just the boredom_. He thought. _Creepy place like this with nothing to do? Maybe Mike just went nuts._ Shrugging, he set the can down and went to shut the door, only to have it bounce uselessly off the frame. The fridge looked as though it was doubled over in agony, owing to a large and suspiciously gauntlet-shaped dent in the right side.

‘Ah, great.’ He sighed. Firmly shoving the corresponding bulge on the inside wall, the dent popped back into shape and the door sealed itself shut effortlessly with the kiss of rubber on metal. Unfortunately, a telltale mark as suspiciously gauntlet-shaped as the hand that made it remained on the side like a big neon sign reading “Ashley J. Williams punched this fridge!”After a few moments of head scratching and a quick peek over either shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, he wrestled the fridge into a better position to hide his blunder. Resolving that his boss could just pay for the damages with a wage snip, Ash staggered clumsily back to his seat.

He had meant to start watching the screen as soon as he sat down again, but in typical fashion, he was more preoccupied with the soda he was drinking than the camera feeds he was monitoring. That is, until the realisation suddenly hit him that the three robots on the show stage were staring down the camera lens with empty eyes. _Wait a minute…_ He squinted suspiciously at the screen. _Weren’t the three fuzzketeers facing somewhere else a second ago?_ For a split second, Ash felt the urge to make a quick trip outside to grab the gore-stained duffel bag from the trunk, just in case. He shook his head. _No, no… It’s just late. I’m tired, and this place is emptier than Castle Kandar after the plague. That’s all there is to it._ His eyes fell on the answering machine, the shiny, black “play” button just itching to be pressed. Ash turned up his nose. Cursing that he didn’t just ask Mike to give him the Cliffs Notes version over the phone, he ignored the box and decided to play it safe by switching to the next feed, the one icon gone untouched- Cam 1C.

Cam 1C was labelled “Pirate Cove,” and for most of its existence consisted of a moth-eaten curtain and a sign reading “Sorry! Out of Order” placed in front of it. Except now, the curtains were parted, and a large, angular head was poking out. Ash knew three things about that head. One, it belonged to what was supposed to be a fox, albeit one with an inexplicable pirate theme and stalactites where its teeth should be. Second, was that its name was Foxy. How someone hadn’t been fired with extreme prejudice from Satan’s Marketing Department of Nightmare Fuel™ over the comparatively mediocre name Ash would never know. Thirdly, and most importantly, he was a hundred percent sure that it wasn’t there when he last looked.

‘So… Mike wasn’t just tooling around with me? Well that’s great, but now what? Do I… write this down, do I go investigate? What do I do?’ Ash asked no one in particular. _Play the recordings,_ Mike’s phantom voice echoed in his mind. _No._ Ash mentally retorted. He switched to the west hall feed to take his mind off of the unnerving animatronic. As he debated furiously with himself over whether or not it would be advisable to go and get his duffel bag from the trunk, Ash ran a hand through his hair in frustration, only to let out a stray “Yeowch!” As a few strands found themselves firmly wedged in the workings of his gauntlet. He winced when he tried to pull his hand away, and settled on using his free hand to work his hair from the pinching plate metal. When he was finally free, he stole a glance at the tablet.

Foxy was sprinting down the hallway at full pelt, directly towards his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought this fic was dead, didn't you. WELL, YOU WERE WRONG.
> 
> Thanks always to my beta reader drbyron, and to you guys (yes, this includes you in your pajamas at three in the afternoon) who keep me motivated to keep continuing with this journey of pain, bad jokes and self-discovery.


	3. Percussion Maintenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ash gets a little bit violent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe you guys a MASSIVE apology. But now I actually have a coherent plot to stick to, so, with any luck, this thing will actually get done.
> 
> As always, massive thanks to DrByron for keeping me motivated and somehow managing to force an actual coherent plot out of me. You are awesome and so is your porn.
> 
> To those who haven't forgotten me and the fact that this trainwreck exists, I salute you. And for those who have, enjoy the ride!

Foxy appeared suddenly in the doorway, bringing with it a deafening electronic screech. It swung at Ash’s head, only for him to quickly duck out of the way to avoid a sharp metal hook, which punctured the desktop monitor with a squeaking crack and a shower of sparks. Ash stepped back, furiously wracking his brains for a way to hold his own against his new foe, whilst it struggled to wrench its hook from the screen. His first instinct was to grope behind his back for his boomstick, only to find himself clutching at coarse, scratchy fabric instead of the 12-gauge double-barrelled Remington usually holstered there. With a squelch, the monitor was ripped from the table, the glue of dust, spilled soda and half-melted plastic finally giving out under the force provided by Foxy’s overpowered hydraulic arm.

On the swing’s follow-through, the box-like screen flew from the hook, landing directly into Ash’s solar plexus, the force of the blow robbing his lungs of both air and the chance to dole out a snide, baseball-related remark. Foxy raised the now unimpeded hook high above its head and swung violently downwards, Ash clumsily blocking the blow with the lifeless monitor like a drunken shield-knight. His arms buckled, the cathode ray tubes and circuit boards popped, the plastic crumpled and crunched under the blow, and the tip of the hook came to an eventual stop a meagre few inches from Ash’s nose.

‘Oh, the miracle of modern technology!’ Ash hooted triumphantly, pleasantly surprised to find, and not for the first time in his life, that he hadn’t just met with a painful and grisly death. Foxy stared blankly downwards, seemingly wondering for the life of it why its hook was buried in a crushed computer monitor and not a certain prominently-jawed head. The monitor fell apart like wet cake, the head behind it wearing a facial expression and making a noise that both strongly resembled an air horn. Foxy shrieked and swung downwards a second time, only for Ash to commando roll out of the way like a purple-clad tumbleweed, leaving the hook to bloodlessly bury itself into the linoleum with a sound like a dart puncturing hippo hide.

Ash jumped to his feet, realised that Foxy had gotten its hook stuck about three inches deep into the linoleum, and made the smug, laughter-suppressing grin of a child who had successfully smuggled a puppy into the house. He had come up with a plan.

Ash wolf-whistled loudly, and with a mighty, rumbling rip, Foxy gave the linoleum a new ravine-like tear. The animatronic looked up from the floor to Ash, who stood proudly in the doorway, jacket held in front of him like a Matador’s cape.

‘Hey! Tall, red and furry! Toro!' Ash punctuated his taunt by snapping his jacket the air like a flag. Proudly boasting an impressive vocabulary the infernal engineers had lovingly programmed, Foxy let out a blood-curdling screech in reply, and ran straight towards Ash, who sidestepped effortlessly out of the way. There was a loud crack as Foxy collided with the west hall wall, showering the floor with powdery flakes of pastel-coloured, speckled paint. 'Eat your drywall, it's good for your head!' Ash called. Foxy slid down the wall sluggishly, and with a noise that even the most accomplished audiophile would mistake for an exasperated sigh, started to climb to its feet. 'Not that good!' Ash spluttered. And, with yet another loud, tinny cry, Foxy charged.

Thinking quickly, Ash's left hand immediately landed on the door button, and in a fraction of a second the heavy metal door was brought down onto the stray robot with a sickening crunch, leaving Foxy lifeless on the floor and boring holes into the back wall with empty eyes.

‘Hoo, boy…’ Ash exhaled, bending down next to the fallen robot. ‘Didn’t your mama ever tell you to knock first?’ He simpered mockingly. He pressed the door button again and took a sharp intake of air at the sight of the robot’s middle, which had a cartoonish, perfectly rectangular indent left in it from the door. Its back half twitched erratically, while its front half lay curiously still. _Okay,_ he inwardly sighed, _they can dock my pay for this too._

Ash made to cordially push the robot out of the doorframe, only for it to suddenly and cruelly spring back to life with another eardrum-bursting cry. Its sharp, knife-like teeth buried themselves into Ash’s prosthetic with a sharp and screeching crunch, making him let loose his own surprised scream that matched Foxy’s in pitch and volume. He thrashed his arm from side to side, kicking desperately at the robot’s head to wrench his arm out of its spring-loaded maw, and slammed his free hand against the button repeatedly. All efforts culminated in the robot’s now heavily-dented head disappearing behind the door, taking Ash’s hand with it. Faintly, from behind the thick plate metal, he could hear a chittering noise that sounded like a triumphant giggle.

‘Oh, you furry, red bastard!’ Ash growled through his teeth. ‘I swear to God, when I see you next, you’re roadkill! You hear me?!’ He bellowed louder, cradling his arm. He let slip a sob, his stump throbbing with phantom pain. It took all his strength to finally look down and survey the damage. What once was a miracle of engineering, made real by hours at the blacksmith’s anvil centuries ago, was reduced to shards of twisted metal attached to his stump by leather straps. Looking at it brought up bad memories, as well as the meatball sub Ash had downed before coming to work.

‘Come on, Ash, get it together…’ He whispered furiously to himself, reaching up to wipe the bile from his lips with his shirt sleeve. All it did was smear the acrid slime across his cheek with a texture not unlike medium-grain sandpaper. ‘You can always make another one.’ He finished.  
‘Yeah…’ he answered himself quietly, nodding along in time with his own words. ‘I can always make another one.’ He repeated confidently. ‘One with a bottle opener and a penknife... Hey, maybe a universal remote!’ He smiled at the thought, and gingerly rolled up his sleeve, unbuckling the gauntlet with trembling fingers. The metal clattered dully on the ground.  
  
His arm felt freakishly light without the ever-present attachment. Feeling himself break out into a nervous sweat, Ash sat with his back against the closed metal door. The feeling of the cool metal against his sweat-pricked back provided sweet relief that distracted him from the fridge door which was opening, slowly so as not to disturb the contents. He couldn't help but feel another freezing pang as his eyes caught the black opening opposite. He crawled quickly to the other side of the room and shut the other heavy door, and with another loud, metallic, slam, Ash was alone in a cocoon of filth. Hanging off the table like a shining black booger was the answering machine. Ash glared at it as though it had just been flicked at his face.  
  
On the stage, a monstrously tall, fat, purple rabbit was standing at attention, twitching occasionally with anticipation, and locked in an intense staring match with the security camera. Eventually, the rabbit assumed that it had won, and then ran- no, _warped_ \- into the cramped backstage area. It took up a good half of the room and stood silently for several minutes, listening to the world around it. Somewhere, a slab-like metal door opened. Its head swiftly turned to face the noise, sticky and neglected joints moving as smoothly and silently as though they were operated by flesh and blood. The thing leered menacingly in its direction. _Break a leg…_

‘Hey!’ Ash wiped at the gob of cold, speckled slime that had just landed on his cheekbone. ‘No spit-balling in class!’ He turned to look at where the rogue slime had come from. The fridge door was open- for who knows how long – and there was an open jar of the same clotted, multi-coloured sludge, erroneously labelled “mayonnaise” festering on the ground in a puddle of its own contents. Leading away from the puddle were a long trail of tiny footprints that came to an abrupt stop near an electrical outlet. Then the scratching came, rapid and pitched to the exact frequency to not only set teeth on edge, but prompt them to start drinking in order to ease the pain.  
_So, whack-a-mole, huh?_ Ash jumped to his feet, ears straining to pinpoint the exact location of the thing in the walls. _Bring it on you little sucker, that top score at the Pizza Shack doesn’t have A-S-H next to it for nothing!_ Ash was, of course, lying. The real high score at Pizza Shack actually belonged to Whack-a-Mole George, whose score had surpassed his own by a whopping ten thousand points, and read A-S-S. Ash wrote off Whack-a-Mole George as an outlier who should not have been counted.

The patch of wall next to his left ear giggled. Ash swung a punch at it, forgetting for a split second that his prosthetic was actually lying under the desk next to a bin full of regurgitated hoagie. His raw stump collided with the wall, sending shocks of white-hot, blinding pain not dissimilar to having six-inch nails driven directly into one's nerve endings directly up his arm. Ash howled and staggered backwards and slipped in the mayonnaise, toppling over like a large-chinned skyscraper. The giggle from behind the cracked drywall turned into a full-hearted guffaw from atop the desk. Ash jumped to his feet.

“Hah!” Ash barked a monosyllabic laugh. “You think that's funny, you little wiseass?” He grabbed the large and unwieldy flashlight he was supplied with as part of his uniform. It was long, wide-set and weighed about five pounds, fitting with the establishment's fondness for supplying its employees with yesteryear's technology. Ash was thankful for the extra weight, as it meant that whatever was currently causing havoc wasn't going to be doing so in the very near future, on account of being squashed flat. “Well, I got a few jokes up my sleeve too!” He readied the flashlight, scanning the desk's cluttered surface for activity. The tissues were scattered across the top like dandelions with various bodily fluids rubbed into them. Without the desk fan, which was lying silently on the floor, the room felt silent, stifling and sticky, or perhaps that was just the spilled soda evaporating off the linoleum. The only thing to counteract the swelling heat in the room was the dread-inducing, oozing atmosphere making its way through the walls of the building. It soaked through the list of rules, shifting and changing the ink printed on it until it transformed into a worn, soaked and fragile newspaper clipping.  
  
Ash, of course, had no way of knowing any of this, because he was too preoccupied with pummelling the desk into oblivion. The presence squeaked and laughed as it ran circles around each of Ash’s blows, each of which drove hard into the table with thunderous hollow crashing. It suddenly dawned on Ash that the chittering presence had fallen silent.

‘How’d you like the taste of _that,_ you little sucker?’ He snarled.

The sudden sound of metallic doors springing open, accompanied by the lights cutting out, answered Ash in the negative. There was silence. The cold wave bled its way slowly into the security office, probing the walls with pitch-black tendrils. There was swearing and clattering as Ash fumbled with the torch. Some well-placed blows to the wall later, the lights flew back on. Standing in the doorway was a purple, portly, and monstrously tall rabbit animatronic- one that the posters called Bonnie. It would have leered at Ash menacingly, but he had since shrieked and bolted out of his office at full pelt towards the “Employees Only” door. He flung himself at the door and yanked uselessly on the handle. He felt around in his pockets for the key, heart plummeting directly towards the earth's molten core when he remembered that they were in his jacket pocket.  
  
Ash was locked in. He looked back. Bonnie was still there, twitching erratically in the doorway Ash had found it in. _Not just locked in,_ He thought, _locked in with_ that _!_  
  
Ash, now frantic, pounded on the door, screaming at the top of his lungs for someone, _anyone_ , to come and let him out.  
  
But it was no use. Behind the building’s cold, slightly sticky walls, Ash was, effectively, a prisoner.


	4. Lost Property

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited thrilling continuation of an incredibly niche horror-comedy crossover fic.

And then Ash and the animatronics had a giant murder orgy that lasted all night while Evil Ash watched from a puddle of spilled soda and ate demon popcorn

the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APRIL FOOL'S LOL
> 
> Jokes aside, an update on how this fic is going: I actually stopped writing it because I lost the plot outline on my computer- add to that college, jobs, mental health, falling out of the Evil Dead fandom a bit... yeah, no wonder this fic kinda died. But it's been great revisiting it, and the extra attention it's been getting this year for some reason genuinely warms my heart right through like a doughnut in the microwave. 
> 
> Also- I just found the word doc for the plot outline squirrelled away somewhere dumb on my computer, so if I can get a few hours to myself, I might just pick up where I left off- and that's no joke.


End file.
